


Sleeping Fine As I Drive You Home Tonight

by anomalyanatoly



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Anti-Russian sentiments (briefly), Excessive Drinking, Family Dinners, Fluff, Freddie's mom & dad, I think Freddie deserves good parents, M/M, Mentions of the Cold War, Nothing bad really happens, a bit ooc at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 06:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalyanatoly/pseuds/anomalyanatoly
Summary: ... because unlike Freddie, who called himredandcommie bastardfor the sake of television, the continuing impact of political consequences still rang deep.Great,thought Anatoly.-Or, the fic where Anatoly attends Freddie's family dinner party.
Relationships: Anatoly Sergievsky/Frederick Trumper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Sleeping Fine As I Drive You Home Tonight

Anatoly observed small groups of people standing sporadically around the large living room. People he barely knew, speaking among themselves about god knows what.

“I got you wine,” Freddie said to him when he crossed over with two glasses—one filled nearly to the brim, the other hardly half full. He handed the latter to him, paused to take a large drink with desperateness not that of thirst.

“You hardly put any in mine,” teased Anatoly.

“I poured yours in mine,” said Freddie. “God so help me tonight, Tolya, I’m not going to be the one holding conversations all night long. Do me a favour this once.”

Anatoly smiled, tipped his glass briefly before sipping. He wasn’t completely against attending a dinner party full of Freddie’s extended family. As far as he was aware, given what little information he’s received about his family, her mother had gotten herself together during the disastrous scene of Merano. According to Freddie, _“not fucking put together enough to get back with my father. What a god damn joke.”_ It came as a bit of a surprise when the invitation arrived in the mail that Freddie almost ripped it to shreds.

He can safely say he regretted accepting the invite. When he saw a weary looking woman greet every individual guest, her features exuded strange confidence that he sees refined in Freddie—some sort of cockiness and self-assurance—and the man following behind him was built like an army man, tough and unforgiving. He was reminded, briefly, of the many anti-Russian sentiments he had the possibility of coming across like a game of bingo. Freddie warned him _(of course he did)_ of the things his father might say, because unlike Freddie, who called him _red_ and _commie bastard_ for the sake of television, the continuing impact of political consequences still rang deep. _Great,_ thought Anatoly.

When his mother and father approached them, she first addressed her son, welcoming him in his warm embrace. “Frederick, my love,” she said as she did. The tension between them wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t completely healed either. Like a bruise more than a cut. A resounding pain that would mark the skin far after it was gone. Slowly, they would ignore the pain, move on with their lives. Then, his mother addressed Anatoly with a fond smile, touched his arm affectionately. “And you must be Anatoly. What a wonderful opportunity it is to meet you.”

Genuine words—Anatoly was certain. He spent his entire chess career reading people by the way they played, but he read them as humans, too. Looked at the way their features sharpened when they lied, or how fear flashed across their eyes when he made a move. _Yes,_ he thought with conviction, _I could come to like her._ “To you as well, Mrs. Trumper. I thank you for including me in your invitation.” Then, he addressed the father with a more stern tone. “Mr. Trumper, it is a pleasure to meet you, too.”

“I’m looking forward to get to know you, Anatoly,” said Mr. Trumper, who offered out a hand. Anatoly took it, shook it firm with a curt nod in agreement.

“Well then,” Mrs. Trumper smiled between him and Freddie. “Dinner is almost served. Please, feel free to join us in the dining room. We’ve lot of catching up to do.” She turned to leave, Mr. Trumper trailing behind her. _Like a puppy,_ thought Anatoly.

“Don’t we,” muttered Freddie. He took a final dip when he finished his wine and distantly followed his mother to the dining room, dragged Anatoly by the arm next to him.

It was rather big by comparison to Anatoly’s own family. The dining table almost stretched out indefinitely. People continued their conversations over the food. He caught wind of certain gossips and scandals of people’s lives. He made no judgement of them, but did find them entertaining. Beside him, Freddie ate quietly, eyes down on his plate the entire time. He wanted to get out quickly, Anatoly assumed.

“Anatoly,” Mrs. Trumper addressed him across the table. Anatoly looked up to meet her eyes curiously. “I understand that you’re a chess player, yes?”

He knew it wasn’t her intention, but he felt as though he was put up in front of a court and being cross-examined. He nodded. “Indeed. I started quite young and spent a lot of my time studying chess.”

Mrs. Trumper smiled, laughed admiringly. “I’m certain. I’m just astonished that people make a living playing chess. It sounds like a rather foolish thing at first glance, doesn’t it?”

Anatoly couldn’t agree, with the rigorous training he had to go through for the Soviet Union to find the next promising child to beat the Americans. Chess was all he’d known—he was almost convinced it was all he was born for. “Only very few get to the very top. It’s quite competitive, but it is a profitable hobby.” He found it easier to bond with Mrs. Trumper over their differences. He, just as Freddie, was still uncertain about the father, who looked disinterested in engaging in conversation.

“The Cold War is still going on, it’s ruining our economy,” one voice came from down the table. There came agreements that surrounded the voice, faint nods. 

“Damn the Cold War,” said another, “we’re still recovering from the last war, and now they’re sending Soviet spies halfway across the world.”

Anatoly, as a rule of thumb, never set out to pick a fight he wasn’t certain he could win. He couldn’t help that the Soviet Union was a big topic among an American household with all the things they read in the newspaper. He saw them too. The useless war made him twist with disgust—he almost became homesick.

Mrs. Trumper—his saving grace—came to realize his discomfort and tried to divert his attention. “I went back and read your matches with Freddie in Merano. You were quite a player”

He caught Freddie’s movements next to him, took his wine glass and gulped it down almost dramatically to further remove his conscious thought from the dreaded dinner. It’s unfortunate he had a high alcohol tolerance. Mrs. Trumper’s effort wouldn’t go unnoticed, but Merano wasn’t really the moral peak of his life—and the slight edge in her tone told him she wasn’t just talking about him being a good player of chess. “Yes, well, I learned a lot from your son after that game.”

“Did you?” murmured Freddie, scoffed quietly.

Anatoly turned his head to him, saw he wasn’t able to meet his eyes. He knew he was just being surly due to the circumstances, but his bitterness still stung him. “Of course I did. You learn from the people you play. I realized afterwards I really knew nothing of chess at all.” A gentle hand circled Freddie’s back, and he looked at him apologetically. He smiled. He hadn’t realized how hands off they’ve been with each other—They always seemed close, always touching one another, and tonight Freddie had been so tense that he shut out everyone. He wouldn’t have anymore of it, especially when they’re present together. Anatoly moved his arm to wrap around Freddie, allowed him to rest his head on his shoulder as further conversations continued, with stifled laughs and brief talk about stock markets and family business. _I could never imagine living the kind of lives they do,_ thought Anatoly.

When the energy of the mingling was past its due, many family members left. Mrs. Trumper waved them goodbye as Mr. Trumper picked up all the dishes from the table. It was only them now—it seemed to take less of a toll on Freddie. “Here,” said Anatoly, handed him a glass of water. “So you don’t hate me for your hangover tomorrow.”

He snorted, said, "I think I'll hate you more if you wake me up at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning," then took the glass and drank it all down.

“Do you two need a taxi ride home?” Mrs. Trumper asked from the doorway, a phone already in hand. Considerate—perhaps to compensate for their possible uncomfort throughout the entire meal. 

Anatoly shook his head. “We’re quite alright. I’ll drive Freddie home.” 

He helped himself and Freddie to their feet. He went to grab their jackets as Freddie gave his mother one last hug. “Thanks for havin’ us, mom. Next time, would rather prefer the four of us, yeah?”

Mrs. Trumper smiled. “I’ll consider it, Frederick. Call some time, will you? I know you’re doing well for yourself now, but I care for you. And give Anatoly my number, I know you won’t pick up if you don’t feel like it.”

Freddie scoffed, waving her off. “Not true,” he said, but did make a mental note of it. Anatoly splayed his jacket over Freddie’s shoulder, smiled at Mrs. Trumper to let her know that he will indeed remind him to do so.

They left the home, vaguely aware of Mrs. and Mr. Trumper watching them approach their car. Anatoly guided Freddie inside, closed the door. He turned around to the presence of a figure standing behind him—Mr. Trumper—whose silence addressed him with odd sheepishness. “I know we didn’t get much chance to speak,” said Mr. Trumper, clearing the roughness in his throat. “But take care of him. I see that you mean well.” _And that you’re not a Russian spy,_ left unsaid in the air.

He wouldn’t be quick to judge. He’d give him the benefit of the doubt, but his voice, cold, like iron, said, “I hope you know how much Freddie cares for his mother. You have a lot to make up—for the both of them.” When he saw him nod, he did, too. “Have a good evening, Mr. Trumper. Please tell Mrs. Trumper I wish her well.” Then he crossed to the driver side, shut the door when he got in with a heaved sigh.

“Fuck was that about?” asked Freddie.

“Friendly words,” said Anatoly, pulled the seatbelt over him and started the vehicle. _I hope it stays that way._

Freddie rolled his head to lean on his shoulder again. “Hey,” he whispered tiredly, “I wanna meet your family too. You met mine—and more.”

Anatoly glanced at him, knew he was just talking for the sake of talking. He felt it was too late, and he was too tired, to know that his parents were deceased. “We can have dinner some time with Florence and Svetlana. The children as well.” He heard him hum, an agreement, though he didn’t think he knew what he was agreeing to. That was fine by him. The headache he’d have in the morning will probably make him forget this conversation anyway, which was fine by him as well.

When he noticed Freddie’s slow breaths, he made an effort to drive carefully where he could. He’ll feel bad for disrupting his sleep when they return home, but he’d give him the time to recharge. He knew this change was good for Freddie—he knew he was good enough for Freddie to let him in on his vulnerabilities. It was a special gift to be given, his trust, and he was honoured to know that he had given the full of it to him.


End file.
